Noah nodded slowly, reaching for his wine. “Do you think he’ll crack if we push him hard enough?”
“If we aim in the right spot.”
He flashed a small grin. “You always know where to aim.”
I didn’t reply, opting instead to sip my wine, letting the warmth wash over me just enough to keep me anchored.
Outside, the wind shifted, and the steady patter of rain began to tap against the windows. I turned my head, watching the rain fall—a gentle, silver blur painting the night.
“It’s really coming down,” I murmured.
Noah leaned back, propping himself on one arm beside me. “You like the rain?”
“It reminds me that something can be both violent and cleansing at the same time.”
He fell silent for a moment, then, with a voice that was both tender and a tad dangerous, he said, “Tell me more.”
I blinked in surprise. “About what?”
“You.”
That one word hung between us, sharp and daunting.
“I’m not sure where to begin,” I admitted.
“Anywhere that feels real.”
I took another sip of my wine, my fingers tightening around the stem, knuckles paling.
“My mother,” I began quietly, “was the very definition of elegance. Always poised. She believed that softness was a weakness, so she turned affection into a prize. Smiles for perfection, silence for mistakes. She loved me… but only under certain conditions.”
Noah listened intently, his gaze unwavering.
“I was trained to move like a dancer and think like a machine. Private tutors, combat instructors,protocols, poise. Cameras were everywhere—not for security, but because appearances were everything.”
My voice wavered, fragile now.
“I remember when I was seven, I cried after a sparring session. My instructor had dislocated my shoulder. I didn’t scream, but the tears fell. My father walked in, looked down at me, and said, ‘If pain makes you hesitate, it will kill you. Don’t let it happen again.’”
Noah’s expression shifted, something breaking inside him.
“My childhood was like a performance,” I continued. “Every day, I was reminded that I wasn’t just a daughter. I was a legacy, a symbol—something to be honed until I shined.”
The fire crackled softly beside us, a comforting sound. I glanced down at my wine, my reflection warped and fractured in the glass.
“I don’t know who I’d be without that pressure,” I confessed. “Or if there’s anything left beneath it.”
He leaned in closer, his voice steady. “There is.”
I shook my head.
“You don’t really know that.”
“I see it,” he replied softly.
That’s when it hit me—the way he looked at me, as if I were something tender, something whole. As if I wasn’t still bleeding underneath the surface.
I hated that look, yet I craved it. It left me feeling exposed, and then he said the one thing I feared most.
